Writer & Masshole

Category: Humor

After a slight Esoterotica hiatus I’m back on my bullshit with another Multiple-Choice Misadventure! And I haven’t learned anything about historical accuracy since the last one.

You are Daphne. Not the one from Scooby Doo — I mean the Greek nymph. You’re currently on tinder. Not the app — I mean that you just had to turn into a goddamn tree to stop that horndog Apollo from dragging you into an evening of epic poetry and chill. He seemed nice enough when you were talking to him on Tinder (and I do mean the app that time,) but in person… he’s a major creeper. Not creepy enough that he would try to fuck a tree, your plan totally worked there, but he was definitely too skeezy for you to want to touch as a human.

Which leaves you at an impasse. A woman’s still got needs.

Once you’re sure the coast is clear, you turn back into a human and since you are being written by a man you immediately admire your breasts in the reflection of a nearby lake for about five minutes.

You still don’t have any plans for this evening, so you take out your phone and find that you have three new messages from eager suitors.

The first message appears to be yet another dick pic from Zeus, only he’s a swan in this one. Eeewwwwww.

The second message is from a man named Pentheus. There are pictures of him next to his chariot, lounging on the balcony of his palace, giving a speech at so–waitwait, palace? Scroll back. Yeah, that’s his own frickin’ palace.

Whoever sent the third message has profile pictures of themselves posing with the corpse of a giant boar they’ve killed, and… one of them wrestling a lion? Ohmigod is that really HERCULES macking on you?!

To respond to Pentheus and have him buy you whatever the Greek equivalent of Cosmopolitans were, turn to page 2.

To respond to Hercules because you want to give the Hydra a run for its money as far as head goes, turn to page 3.

Like this:

Biopunk and solarpunk and silkpunk are apparently things now. You can argue about whether or not any of these things qualify as “punk,” like people have been doing with the political implications of steampunk. Or you can go the route of electronic music and just embrace categories breaking down into more and more specific subgenres. Because I know darn well what my shtick is, I’m taking the second route.

Here are some overly-specific subgenres for a few books I’ve read in celebration of categorization.

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Entry number five or six in my series of shorts about a third-shift psychologist. Special guest-reference to the work of Andy Reynolds, fellow New Orleans SF writer — check his stuff out here.

Nocturnal Admissions: Swine & Roses

Ever since I helped that smooth guy from Cafe Envie get over his affair with a sexually-frustrated ghost, my practice has begun taking on the occasional supernatural client. A number of them, unsurprisingly, have trouble integrating into modern society.

Andy is probably the one who gave Circe got my number. Dream girl? I can’t date clients. Pixie? It was more of a Chelsea cut. But manic? That’s exactly what her appointment that night was about!

“So,” she began, “after some bro-y sailor spread gossip about me being a battleaxe just because I wouldn’t line his crew up and blow ’em all in a row like a trained seal, I had to skip town for a couple thousand years. New Orleans seemed like a fun place with the vampires and all.”

The Ghost of Esoteroticas Present leads you through the night to a well-lit house, and clasps its hands together to give you a boost up to peer in through the window. Inside you see two people, their faces obscured by one’s hair, embraced on the living room couch and in the process of undressing each other.

The Ghost shakes its head, lets you down, then produces a ladder which it raises against the side of the house. You climb and look in through a second story window, where you recognize your ex, alone on one side of a bed, fast asleep.

Interpretations: Schadenfreude, things evening out, the not-Alanis-Morissette kind of irony.Reversed: You’re just going to sit there scribbling over his face in old photos for another weekend, aren’t you? I worry sometimes.